


In Your Atmosphere

by xCake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bucky's body is a temple, F/M, I guess the first kiss is dubcon? but not really, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Is a Good Bro, One-Sided Attraction, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, Wanda would be a makeup vlogger in another life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-03-29 19:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19026532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCake/pseuds/xCake
Summary: The first time you met Steve Rogers, he kissed the hell out of you.It wasn't the first timehemetyou.[ eventual Steve x Reader and (mostly) platonic Bucky x Reader ]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for joining me on this journey.  
> This will be set shortly after Age of Ultron.  
> Enjoy!

Quiet.

That was the first thing you noticed about the new Avengers facility. It was a stark contrast to the Tower you'd visited a handful of times before whilst on official SHIELD business. There, you could easily hear the sounds of peak hour traffic and the endless police sirens, too, even ninety floors down - but here, there was nothing of the sort. It paled in comparison to the familiar city sounds of Washington DC, the ones you'd grown used to whilst working at the Triskelion. The paper-thin walls of your small inner-city apartment had done nothing to dull the noise, not like here, where you could just barely hear the spring birds chirping.

Upstate New York was quite rural, not urban like you were used to. Unfortunately, you'd have to get used to it, because as of today, this quiet place would be your new home. 

You hated the quiet.

To say that it was a pain in the ass was an understatement. 

Late last year, it had become public knowledge that SHIELD was compromised. You'd known for much longer. Even after the incriminating files were uploaded to the web, you remained steadfast in your mission to gather further intel on Hydra.

Then, a couple of days ago, you'd been caught putting your nose where it didn't belong. You had very narrowly escaped with your life and as a result, you found yourself having to get off the grid. 

Tony Stark was ever the gracious host, offering up the compound while you regained your bearings and continued your investigation into what little of Hydra remained. Birds of a feather, and all that. 

What made the whole ordeal even more jarring, though, was that you'd only previously met a couple of them, the Avengers, and now you were settling into their home. While you were familiar with Director Fury (wherever he was nowadays), Black Widow, and Hawkeye - because they worked with you at SHIELD; and Tony of course, too, because you often met with him in Agent Coulson's stead - the rest you'd only ever seen in photos.

The soft sound of your suitcase's plastic wheels rolling along the tile echoed off the tall ceilings as you followed Tony through the compound on a tour. You hadn't been able to bring much, just some clothes, toiletries, and a couple of sentimental items. That was all that would fit on the back of the motorcycle you'd been forced to hotwire. After all, a car wouldn't have been ideal if you had to get away in a pinch. All things considered, you were lucky to have made it here in one piece.

The final stop on the tour was your new bedroom. There were a lot of those here: enough for the Avengers, of course, and then at least triple that amount for other staff and for guests. You weren't sure which category you fell under.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this," you said finally, coming to a stop behind Tony as he opened the bedroom door for you.

Tony laughed at that. "Don't worry about it, kid. Make yourself at home."

You gave him a smile and, when he gestured for you to go in, you stepped inside [the corner suite](https://66.media.tumblr.com/8fae4ba01e0bdca97b4fbb9b0169998b/tumblr_ptdnoywwmZ1rvckt3o3_r2_540.jpg).

The walls were a warm, welcoming combination of wood and plaster, and the room's large windows stretched from the floor to the ceiling, situated directly next to the closet and ensuite and catty-cornered from the doorway. They offered a beautiful panoramic view of the lush green grass on the training grounds, the dense forest bordering the compound, and the sparkling lake beyond. You'd been all sorts of places in your line of work, but this simple view was just as breathtaking. 

On the same wall as the entryway was a large queen-sized bed made of honeyed oak. Its plush mattress was decked out in soft grey and white bedding, along with a few matching throw pillows. Two wooden side tables sat on either side of the bed, with a modern lamp placed on each; and a large flat-screen TV was mounted to the opposite wall. There was also a small chair, which you would very likely use for your suitcase.

"Thank you," you told him gratefully. "You're a lifesaver. Literally."

"That's enough of that, now," Tony chided as he made his exit. "I'll let you get settled. Just pop downstairs when you're ready to meet the team."

You nodded, and Tony shut the door behind him, allowing you to acclimate to your new home.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, after you unpacked your belongings, showered in the adjoining en-suite, and changed into fresh clothing - a plain tee shirt and skinny jeans - you made your way downstairs to the combined kitchen and living area. Before you even got there, you could hear lively conversation between a handful of people, four of them from the sounds of it. The facility already seemed much less sterile with the friendly banter spilling into the halls.

When you stepped into the room, you found that you were wrong. There were five of them, not four.

Natasha was the first to notice you. She was in the kitchen, fixing herself some kind of healthy smoothie. Beside her on the kitchen counter was a bag of spinach and a chopping board full of fruit. When she gave you a nod and flashed a quick smile, you did the same in response. You'd been good friends for a couple of years, now, and once upon a time the two of you used to go out drinking pretty frequently upon returning from the missions you went on together. She'd seen you sloppy drunk more times than you could count, but you'd never even seen her tipsy. She was Russian. You were a lightweight. 

Your eyes moved from her to Tony, who looked comfortable and smug as always. He was sitting in a brown leather chair with his feet up on the coffee table, a glass of whiskey in hand, chatting animatedly with Vision about some type of advanced science or engineering or... something. You didn't really understand any of it. What you did gather was that it had to do with the mission they'd just returned from.

Stretched out on the sofa was Wanda, with her feet in Vision's lap. That was certainly a bizarre sight. They were both dressed so casually compared to the uniforms you'd seen them in; particularly Vision, considering he wasn't human but his sweater and button-down shirt were distinctly so. The funniest part of it all was that Wanda was scrolling through her Insta feed in boredom. You totally understood.

The last person you spotted was the unmistakable silhouette of Captain Steve Rogers. His back was turned toward you and the rest of the room as he looked out the large windows toward the lake, deep in thought. That was a strange sight, too, for you'd never seen Captain America in civilian clothing, let alone such a form-fitting white tee shirt and grey sweatpants like he currently wore. God, he really did have a fantastic ass. You'd always thought so from the photos you'd seen, but seeing it in real life was an entirely different animal altogether.

"There she is," Tony said with a grin, pulling you out of your reverie as his companions turned to look at you.

"Here I am," you responded awkwardly, doubting that most of them even knew who you were.

Tony introduced you to them one by one. Wanda was first; she gave you a smile and waved a little, but aside from that she didn't budge an inch. She seemed only a couple of years younger than you, which was kind of nice because you might be able to chat with her about normal girly things. You had an Insta, too, and as you offered her your handle - not that you really expected her to actually follow you, but she did! - Vision gently moved Wanda's feet to the side so that he could stand and greet you properly.

"It's a pleasure, Agent," Vision told you, and you shook his hand cheerfully. He was much kinder than you thought he would be.

"Come on, Cap," Tony called over his shoulder, sounding exasperated. "Don't be rude."

"Come off it, Tony," Steve grumbled in annoyance, which came as a bit of a surprise. Then again, it wasn't exactly a secret that he and Tony didn't get along sometimes. He took a few steps back to the group, but when his clear blue eyes finally met yours, he froze in place.

"Captain…?" you ventured hesitantly.

The way he was looking at you, almost mystified, made you blush and when he said your nickname, just once, your brows furrowed in confusion. Tony hadn't had a chance to give anyone your nickname, yet, let alone your actual name. How could he have known that? You'd never met him before. 

Then Steve closed the distance in four quick, long strides and, before you could react, his lips were hot on yours.

You were too stunned to react at first. His lips were soft, but his kisses weren't, nor were his hands as they snaked around your waist to pull your body flush against him. You couldn't hold back the muffled gasp that escaped you at the feeling of his strong chest pressed firmly against your breasts and you felt like a ragdoll in his muscular arms, loving how easily he was able to move you in whatever way he liked. His temperature ran much hotter than yours, so much that you could feel the heat radiating off of him through the thin fabric of your shirt. God, and the smell of him was intoxicating; he smelled clean, like soap and fresh laundry along with something so distinctly him that you lost yourself in it. When you responded to his kiss in kind, you quickly found yourself breathless, needy, and desperate, your heart pounding fiercely against your ribcage. 

That was when Tony's cat calls resonated in your brain, and you suddenly realized what was happening. You roughly shoved your palms against Steve's chest, hoping he would stop and also wishing that he wouldn't. Considering his strength, you knew that he could have just ignored you - but he didn't. He immediately let you go, and you instantly regretted the loss of his body against yours. 

What a mess.

Your breath came out in harsh, shaky pants as you brought your fingers to your swollen lips, staring at him with a delicate mixture of awe, indignation, and fear.

Captain America was a pervert. Your rose-tinted image of him was steadily crashing and burning into a million pieces.

"What the _hell,"_   you spat hoarsely, "was _that?_ "

It was in that moment that the good Captain finally seemed to regain his senses. All the eyes in the room were on him, silently judging him - except Tony, who was laughing his head off - but the only ones he cared about were yours. And yours, well, your eyes and your judgement were the worst of all. With one look, he could tell you already despised him.

The worst part was that he couldn't even explain it to you. Well, he _could,_ technically, but there would be grave consequences.

Steve held his hands up in front of him in a show of surrender. "Wish I could explain, doll," he grimaced at the casual address when it slipped off his tongue so easily, "but I can't."

He didn't miss the way your jaw tensed at his non-answer. He knew you - well, not this version of you, but he still knew how you would react. You were teetering on the fine line between slapping the hell out of him and storming out of the room. Either reaction would embarrass you, and he didn't want that.  

"What I can do is apologize," he spoke carefully, like you were a cornered animal, "and I'm sorry, Agent. It won't happen again."

You crossed your arms in front of yourself, biting the inside of your cheek. He certainly looked apologetic enough, but you weren't sure if he really meant it and, worse still, if you could even trust him at all. He was Captain America, leader of the Avengers. Even _Natasha_  trusted him. Surely that meant he was trustworthy, but what man in his right mind kissed a girl like that before he even said two words to her?

When Tony's laughter had died down, you weren't sure, but you could feel all eyes on the room fixed upon you, now, and you shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. You glanced over at Natasha for help and, upon seeing her amused look, you finally remembered your training. The best course of action here would be diplomacy.

"Okay." You offered a perfectly calculated shrug and casually held your hand out to him for a handshake. "Well, whatever. It's good to meet you, Captain."

Steve could feel the trembling of your small hand in his grasp. He shook it once, and then he let it go.

You could immediately tell that he'd figured you out, that you were putting on a brave facade. Whether you were afraid of him or of your body's reaction to him, you didn't know, but you wouldn't let it show. Not in front of the others. Not in front of Tony. Not when he was being such a gracious host.

"Well, that was awkward," you said with a nervous laugh in an attempt to diffuse the situation. 

Fortunately, it worked, and soon enough the conversation began to flow freely again. Tony and Vision continued discussing their science, the kind that was _way_ above your paygrade, while Natasha finished adding ingredients to her smoothie. Wanda had since stopped laying down, instead she sat in the middle of the sofa which allowed you to take a seat next to her. She showed you her Insta feed while she scrolled through it, and the two of you chatted about the new makeup releases that appeared as she scrolled further and further down. Every now and then, she gave you a sly grin, which you did your best to ignore. You definitely hadn't heard the last of it yet. 

You were keenly aware of him, though, even as you tried to forget about the way your heart was racing. Your body was still thrumming with excitement from the encounter, heat pooling in between your legs, and you risked a glance at him. His cheeks were slightly flushed as he talked to Natasha about something you couldn't hear, her blender whirring loudly over their voices. You knew it was being used as some type of cover, but you still tried - and failed - not to pay attention.

Then your eyes met his for the briefest of seconds, and you quickly looked away. 

 

* * *

 

After a few distracted minutes, your phone buzzed, and you quietly excused yourself from Wanda to pull it out of your pocket. Natasha had sent you a text.

  

You shot Natasha a look and she grinned at you, to which you rolled your eyes. It looked like Steve had left her to her smoothie, and you quickly scanned around the room only to discover that he was nowhere to be found. He must have slipped away sometime while you were blatantly ignoring him.

Well, that was kind of disappointing, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you responded to her text with righteous indignation. 

Then she sent you a picture of what had just happened, a very clear photo of Captain America kissing the living daylights out of you. God, you knew how well he could kiss, now, but seeing your reaction to it on the small screen was even worse.

When had he even leaned you back? You weren't parallel to the floor or anything, like in the movies, but he had definitely leaned you back, forcing your body to rely on him. Perhaps 'forcing' was too strong a word, because you hadn't been forced at all - quite the opposite. One of his muscular arms was around your waist, and with the other he splayed his large palm over the middle of your back, holding you securely against him so that you didn't fall. Your fingers, meanwhile, were threading through his blonde hair, pulling him impossibly closer. It wasn't hard to see the shared desperation between the two of you, a desperation you'd never felt before.

Feeling embarrassed, you huffed and hovered your fingertip over the 'delete' button. Natasha had a point, though, and you just couldn't bring yourself to delete it. She was right. You did love it. 

That was going to be a problem.


	2. Chapter 2

Less than three hours later and you’d already learned how quickly the gossip spread around here. You hadn't even met the other Avengers yet and you were already getting a reputation. What that reputation was, exactly, you weren’t entirely sure, but even some of the general staff on the administrative floors seemed to eyeball you as you stormed around the compound.

Oh, god help him if you saw him before you calmed down. You were going to give him a piece of your mind, because how _dare_ he give you that kind of reputation. You were great at your job, and you prided yourself in your work. Now none of that seemed to matter.

To release some of your frustrations, you decided to hit the gym. The unfamiliar quiet made it impossible to shake the recent events from your mind. You hated the way your body had responded to him so eagerly, how easily he’d been able to take your breath away with such a passionate kiss. Your reaction to it surely would have further fuelled the rumours. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t entirely on him.

After you shoved a pair of Tony's readily-provided wireless earbuds into your ears, you fussed with your phone as you walked on the treadmill to warm up, finally selecting a particularly nasty playlist. Then you got to work.

With all of the commotion at SHIELD as of late, you hadn't had a good workout in over a week. Your muscles burned as you bench-pressed your max weight, doing two less repetitions than you usually could. Today was definitely not the day to set a personal best. With an irritated groan, you racked the bar and sat up, wiping the sweat from your brow with your towel.

It wasn't really your day at all, considering, well… everything.

You did two more quick, annoyed sets and then fastened your lifting belt around your abdomen to start on your squats. The barbell was a large, welcome weight at the back of your neck as you watched your form in the mirror. _That,_ at least, was decent, and you didn't have to reduce your reps or weight this time. Maybe today wasn’t a total failure. And, hey, you looked damn good in the tight grey leggings and seamless top that Tony had also given you upon your arrival. They were made of some special moisture-wicking material that was probably more expensive than your rent - or at least what it used to be in DC. 

At this time of day, around two in the afternoon, you'd found the gym deserted. It didn't stay that way. With [the music](https://open.spotify.com/track/1rfRfUzWDF6ixYakePpaD3?si=Pbm4eQvKTeGhsXf59ih49g) blaring in your ears, you didn't hear when someone else entered the room. 

The slightest bit of movement in the corner of your vision caught you off guard, and you startled, unceremoniously dropping the barbell onto the padded floor with a loud _clang_ as the weight plates smacked together. Your hands were already out in front of you, balled into fists, an ingrained reaction to unexpected stimuli.

Then you saw who it was, and your temper flared instantly. Of _course_ he was here right now, looking hot as hell in that tight white tee shirt and those stupid fucking sweatpants that made his ass look great. Didn’t he have more important things to do than get you all worked up again?

Ripping the earbuds from your ears, your angry snarl came out before you could bite it back, "What the hell do you want?"

If he was at all taken aback by your nasty greeting, he didn’t let it show.

"Hey." His tone was nice enough, but it was firm. "Language."

You bristled at the warning.

"Sorry, Captain, but I’m not an Avenger," you sneered. “Don’t think you can order me around.”

It was very unlike you to resort to playground taunts. _You’re not the boss of me, Captain. Nyah nyah_.

Now, you certainly had every right to be upset, but for a large part of it you knew it was just projection. You’d always been attracted to him in the photos and video clips you’d seen of him – mostly on the news – and truth be told, you were still reeling from his kiss. What girl wouldn’t want to be kissed by Captain America? Of course you were thrilled. At the same time, you hated that you'd liked it so much, so now you were lashing out because you were an emotional wreck of a person.  

Quite the opposite, Steve Rogers was well-known for his patience, his self-control – but you were so incredibly talented at making him lose it. You always had been.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he just hadn’t been able to help himself. It was like his brain had stopped working in favour of letting his body, his instincts, take over. He’d been missing your kisses, your taste, your touch ever since he could remember. For ages, he’d been longing to feel your body against him again – and then, suddenly, there you were.

If only he’d taken the time to look, really look at you before he acted on his first impulse, he would have noticed your youth. He would have seen that this iteration of you wasn’t his best girl. No, that girl - that sweet, bold, beautiful _woman_ who had first captivated him so long ago - had yet to appear.

As he looked at you now under the harsh fluorescent lighting, the difference was unmistakable. Your beautiful eyes weren’t weary. They weren’t hardened from battle. They didn’t shine with the shared love between the two of you. Not yet.

Instead, they were angry and fixed upon him in a heated glare. Today was the first day _you’d_ met _him_ , and now – now you quite clearly despised him. He didn’t blame you.

“Look,” Steve spoke patiently, doing his best to keep the peace, “I’m sorry. If you want me to leave, I’ll go. I can come back when you’re done.”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line as you considered his offer. No, this was his home, too, and he’d been here way longer than you. He was also an Avenger, so surely his physical training was much more important than yours in the grand scheme of things. It would be selfish of you to accept.

You frowned. “No, that’s not fair to you.”

And just like that, the fire of your rage faded into an insignificant smoulder. There was something so kind and so genuine about him that you just couldn’t shake. As soon as he had realized that you were uncomfortable, he asked you what you wanted him to do. He gave you a choice. You appreciated that very much.  

Not that he had given you one earlier, but hey. Baby steps.

“It’s not a problem,” he told you, slinging his duffel bag back over his shoulder. “Really. I’ll come back in an hour.”

“Wait,” you called out. “It’s not like I own the place. You live here too.” Hesitantly, you added a little gentle ribbing to test the waters and diffuse some of the tension, “Wouldn’t want you to fail your PT test, or whatever it is you do. I mean, do you lift cars, or…?”

Steve’s brows raised at your teasing, and he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve got jokes, huh?”

His smile made you weak. “I’ve got a ton.”  

“Guess I’ll stay, then,” he said with a shrug, setting his duffel down on the bench. “Wouldn’t want you to sign me out of commission.”

You snorted and turned to your own bag, returning the earbuds back into their case and retrieving your water bottle. You still weren’t happy about your new reputation, but he wasn’t entirely to blame for it. Mostly, but not entirely. As you nursed your water, you watched him set up his equipment, not even trying to hide your curiosity. God, the bar looked like it was about to bend in half, he’d stacked so many weight plates upon it.

“Are you serious right now?” you asked him in disbelief. “How many pounds is that?”

“I mean, you said you had a _ton_.”  

You choked on your next gulp of water, a combination of a laugh and an actual attempt at hydration. That was a terrible joke, even for you.

“I won’t believe it until I see it,” you countered cheekily. “Give me five reps, soldier.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a grin and laid down on the bench.

Your eyes trailed over his toned body as he did just as you asked, pushing out five easy reps. His muscles flexed and rippled under the heavy weight – a literal ton – but he didn’t even break a sweat. You chewed your lip thoughtfully as you watched him. Jesus, no wonder he was able to manhandle you so easily earlier. You loved it.

The loud _clink_ of him racking the bar again brought you back to reality.  

“Captain Rogers,” you spoke incredulously, “I think you might just be a show-off.”   

“Doll,” he began, sitting back up to look at you, “You’d know if I was showing off.”

You’d been so stunned from the kiss earlier that when he called you ‘doll’ afterwards, it didn’t really register; but now, being alone with him, it most certainly did. The way he was looking at you did nothing to quell the heat rising in your cheeks.

He was _flirting_ with you.

You swallowed thickly.

The casual, lighthearted atmosphere had disappeared in an instant, replaced by sweet, delicious, nearly unbearable sexual tension. You knew you weren’t the only one feeling it: the fact that he had kissed you earlier proved that he _wanted_ to kiss you, and despite how indignant you were, despite how much you tried to ignore the way it made your heart race, Natasha was right. You absolutely loved it.

“Sorry,” Steve offered, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s an old habit. Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“Calling you ‘doll’. Does it bother you? I mean, considering…”

Considering he’d kissed the living daylights out of you just a couple of hours ago?

“No,” you said hoarsely. “It’s fine.”

Your face was flushed, and your heart was pounding. It was more than fine.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room as you finally stooped to collect the long-forgotten barbell you’d dropped on the floor. Its heft seemed lighter, now, probably because of all the adrenaline running through your veins. You easily placed it back onto the squat rack, but you kept your back toward him as you slowly unloaded the plates, not wanting him to see the effect he had on you.

You had so many questions, but not enough courage to ask them. Instead, you forced them down and, after you put the last plate back, you spun around and crossed your arms.  

“So, Cap,” you challenged, “Take me through your workout.”

You hoped that it would distract you from the tension, and it did. For a while.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, you were sprawled out on your back, on the floor, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

In retrospect, you probably should have known better than to ask Captain America of all people to train you. Not because he was a super soldier and all that, but because he was _brutal_. Your muscles were already aching, and you could only imagine how sore you were going to be in the morning.

“Who likes burpees,” you grumbled under your breath, rolling from your back to your stomach to get up. God, you couldn’t even get up off the floor properly.

“No one likes burpees,” Steve told you pointedly, squatting down next to you, “but they do the job.”

“You’re a sadist,” you groaned, slowly pulling yourself up to a seated position.

“If you’ve still got enough energy to complain, then we’re not done yet.”

“No more,” you wailed dramatically, flopping back down onto your back. The padded gym flooring was cool to the touch against your overheated, sweat-slicked skin. It had been a full two minutes since your last round and you still hadn’t managed to catch your breath. You weren’t out of shape by any means, but it was just too hot in here despite the many fans the two of you had since turned on.

As you waved the collar of your shirt back and forth to try and get some air flow going, you didn’t notice that it was pulling the hem up, revealing a small strip of your abdomen. That is, until you caught him staring. Thankfully, your cheeks were already flushed from the exercise.

On the flipside, his face hadn’t been, at least not until you caught him staring. That was a fun discovery. It seemed even he could blush.

Steve cleared his throat and got back to his feet, offering you his hand to help you up. When you took it, you found that your breathing was finally starting to go back to normal - only for the touch of his skin to take it away again. His temperature ran much hotter than yours, and you could feel his body heat and the roughness of his large, callused hand against the soft skin of your palm.

He easily pulled you to your feet like you didn’t weigh a thing. Considering he could bench press a literal ton, to him you were probably light as a feather.

"Thanks," you told him breathlessly. 

He gave you a single nod and released your hand, but your skin still tingled from his touch. To distract yourself from it, you began to pack up your things.

“I was rude to you earlier,” you ventured hesitantly, not looking up from your bag. You were embarrassed by your awful behaviour. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I shouldn’t have put my hands on you.”  

You finally looked up from your bag to meet his eyes. They were gentle, kind, and so, so blue. There was an emotion there that you just couldn’t place, but the lingering remorse was genuine.

In that moment, you were hit with the sudden realization that he was just as human as you.

“Let’s start over,” you suggested, holding out your hand for another handshake. The first time you’d met, it hadn’t exactly been a proper introduction and you wanted to wipe the slate clean, for both of you. A look of understanding came across his face and, when he took your hand, you offered him your full name.

This time, your hand was steady, not trembling like before. He replied with a smile, “Steve Rogers.”   

“Steve,” you repeated, testing the feel of his name on your tongue. It felt good to say his actual name, rather than his title, and you resolved to use it going forward. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He said your first name in response and shook your hand once, twice, and then he let you go. “The pleasure’s all mine.”


	3. Chapter 3

As the sun disappeared under the horizon, the compound became busier, almost bustling with activity as more and more people returned from their missions. Not that you noticed. After your brutal training session with Steve, you'd left him behind to finish his training and took another long, hot shower and then a nap, having been thoroughly and completely wiped out by the exercise. At first, you’d changed back into your casual clothes with the intention of exploring more of the compound, but once you went to rest your eyes for a minute you were out like a light.

The sounds of a heated argument followed by the slamming of a door were what woke you from your slumber. You couldn’t hear a lick of what had been said, but you ventured out into the hallway to investigate, yawning loudly. Your muscles were already singing from overuse – not even the hot shower had helped – and you’d feel it even worse tomorrow for sure.

The long hallway was dimly-lit, giving you the impression that it was much later than it actually was; a quick check of your phone indicated that it was a little after eight o’clock at night.

During your tour earlier in the day, you'd learned that this entire side of the building was residential, including the three floors above and the two below yours. It was evident that other people lived on your floor, the third floor, but you hadn’t yet figured out who your neighbours were. Your bedroom was in the corner, furthest from the stairs, and as you made your way toward them, you assumed that you probably wouldn't be finding out tonight. The other doors were closed, and it was far too quiet for your liking. 

Your stomach growled and you gave up on your investigation to make your way to the kitchen. Considering everyone who lived here were all basically roommates, there were bound to be arguments. You knew from experience that it was hard to live with other people sometimes, and the Avengers were people, too.

The kitchen was deserted, and the dishwasher was running. It looked like everyone may have already eaten dinner. How did that even work, anyway? Did they share meals at the kitchen table, or did they eat separately? Who bought the groceries? Were they for communal use? At the very least you hoped that the answer to the last question was ‘yes,’ because you were starving.

Not wanting to accidentally steal someone else’s food, you took a mandarin orange from the fruit bowl on the table, in hopes that it would stave off your hunger while you tried to figure out what else you could eat without imposing. You took a seat at the counter and peeled the fruit as you scrolled through your Insta feed, liking a couple of Wanda’s posts. She was really excited about an upcoming high-end makeup release based on the female Avengers, herself included. She even had her own eyeshadow palette which you made a mental note to buy.

Just as you started to research the other palettes, a female voice piped up from the other side of the kitchen island. “Hey, you’re up.”

You jumped, slamming your knee on the counter in the process.

“God damn it, Nat,” you hissed, rubbing your bruising knee. “I _hate_ it when you do that shit.”

She just grinned at you and took a seat at the counter beside you, peering at your phone. “Oh yeah, those are coming out next week. You’d better buy mine.” 

“You know I will,” you told her, popping a piece of fruit into your mouth. Not that you knew how to use it properly, the makeup, but you liked to try anyway.

Natasha took a piece of your orange for herself without asking, but that was only because you’d shared plenty of meals before, namely when the two of you went drinking. It didn’t bother you in the least. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” You knew what she was asking, about how you were coping with what had happened earlier. At her skeptical look, you rolled your eyes. “We did some burpees and talked it out.”

Natasha snorted.

You frowned at her. “What? Exercise calms me down. You know that.” 

You purposely didn’t mention the fact that you and Steve had trained together for over an hour, or that the sexual tension between the two of you had been so thick you could’ve cut it with a knife. It was unfortunate that your face heated at the memory, because Natasha didn’t fail to notice if the sly look on her face was any indication. “Is that what it does, now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you said exasperatedly, shoving the rest of the orange into your mouth. 

She laughed again. “Burpees. Christ. You’re perfect for each other.”

You finished chewing and swallowed the fruit. “Can you _not?_ " 

She shot you another teasing look, but as per your request she changed the subject. “Have you had dinner?”

“No, I was going to ask. Is everything shared, or…?”

“Yeah,” she affirmed. “Pretty much. If you buy something for yourself, though, just write your name on it before you put it in the fridge. Otherwise someone will get into it.”

As if on cue, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, walked in for a post-workout snack – at least that’s what you assumed from the gym towel slung over his shoulders. There were two large refrigerators in the room, one by the entryway and one near you, behind the kitchen island. He went for the former, from which he pulled out a random blue container and cracked the lid to peer inside.

“Like I said,” Natasha said, eyeing him warily, “ _Someone._ ” 

You tried and failed to stifle a laugh. From what you understood, Sergeant Barnes had been through hell and back, so you couldn't really blame him. He was probably still adjusting to not being a human science experiment. That was probably a little more important than remembering to check a container for names.

“I only take Nat’s food,” he commented dryly, not even bothering to look over at the two of you as he popped the container into the microwave. “She likes to eat healthy. So do I. Your body’s a temple ‘n all that.”

You raised an eyebrow and glanced over at her for confirmation. She just shrugged. Well, you couldn't really blame him for that, either.

After the microwave started up, he leaned on the counter and finally spared a glance at you. Then he greeted you casually, “Oh, hey, Tang. Been awhile.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

That was when his eyes widened for a split second, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he realized what he’d said - not that you had any idea what that was, exactly. 

“Sorry,” he covered quickly, “You, uh, look like someone I used to know.” As if that was a good enough explanation, he came over and held out his right hand, the flesh one, for a handshake. “Call me Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said politely, shaking his hand as you offered him your name.

Then he brought your hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of it with a crooked smile.  “Good to meet you, too, gorgeous.”

Maybe it was because your brain was already fried from the day’s earlier events, but you just gaped at him. That made twice in one day you’d been hit on, and by two Avengers, no less. Bucky was plenty handsome, of course: he had that sort of ‘bad boy’ appeal, with a bit of scruff on his face and a head of unruly brown hair. It suited him, but you couldn’t help but wonder how often it got in the way during fights. You liked to have yours pulled back out of the way, or cut short, depending on the mission.

The microwave beeped, then, signalling that his food was ready, and he released your hand to go retrieve it.

“I think you broke her,” Nat remarked.

“Nat,” you huffed, “You need to stop.”

You definitely weren’t used to this kind of attention. While in the past you’d been on missions where your role was that of a seductress, you’d never actually had that sort of appeal in your regular life. Today was a freak occurrence.

Bucky just laughed and, with his container and a fork in hand, he made his exit. He called over his shoulder on his way out, “See you around, sweetheart.”

 

* * *

  

What was meant to be a quick meal turned into a spontaneous girls’ night, with wine and cheese and stupid, terrible spy movies. That had always been a favourite for you and Natasha, because they were so hilariously inaccurate and the two of you loved to rip them apart. This one in particular was worse than most, but then again, you’d already polished off a bottle of wine each and were well into a third.

It felt so, so good to catch up with her. You hadn’t had a chance to over the last few months, considering how busy she’d been with the Avengers and how hard you’d been working to dig into SHIELD’s corruption. Every now and then, you did a welfare check on her to ensure that she was still alive, and of course she was. You had no doubt that she checked up on you every now and again, too.

Your peals of laughter spilled out of the living room as Natasha did a particularly awful impression of the female lead, who seemed to have no common sense whatsoever.

Sadly, your fun was rudely interrupted.

“It’s three in the morning, ladies. I can hear you all the way…”

Steve’s reprimand trailed off as he caught sight of you, and it was like his irritation seemed to just melt away. You were sitting cross-legged on the sofa, looking pretty as a picture with a blanket thrown over your lap, face flushed from the alcohol. He’d been able to hear all the excitement from his room upstairs, but he didn’t really put two and two together until he saw you. It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize your voice; it just caught him off-guard. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen you smile, and even longer since he'd heard you laugh. 

You glanced over at Natasha, brows raised. “Uh oh,” you managed to say in between giggles, “We’re in trouble, now.”

“Busted,” she agreed with a grin, before she let out a sigh. “I guess it is getting late, though. Got an early mission.”

As Natasha got to her feet, Steve eyed the coffee table and spotted three bottles of wine, two of which were empty and the third, nearly so. Beside them were two wine glasses, a small platter of cheese, crackers, and grapes, as well as a half-eaten block of chocolate. Judging by the haphazard way the chocolate bar had been opened, with the foil ripped and crumpled in such a strange way, he guessed that it was yours.

“Aw, but the movie isn’t over,” you protested, reaching over to break off a piece of chocolate.

He was right.

“Sorry,” she told you apologetically, taking one last cube of cheese for the road. “Night, guys.”  

With one final pout, you said, “Bye, Nat.”

Steve didn’t miss the sly look Natasha shot him as she left the room, and his jaw tensed. He wasn’t going to live down the day's earlier events for a while.

“There’s still plenty of cheese left,” you called out to him, not wanting it to go to waste. “And wine, if you like that sort of thing.”

“What are you watching?” he asked you, slowly coming to stand beside the sofa.

“It’s called _Hitler’s Mistress_.” At Steve’s unimpressed look, you added, “His girlfriend is an American spy, except she’s _really_ bad at it. Like, in real life he probably would have figured it out in the first two minutes of meeting her, bad.”

“That sounds…” he paused, wrinkling his nose as he tried to think of a nice way to word it, “not that great.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” you told him matter-of-factly. “It was supposed to be a love story, but it’s terrible. Watch with me?”

Considering his history, he didn’t particularly want to watch a movie about Hitler, but you really seemed to be enjoying it and he was awake, now. So, taking your word for it, he settled into the nearby armchair. “Sure.”

You were a bit disappointed that he didn’t next to you on the sofa like Natasha had, but that was fine. It was probably better that you didn’t sit together, considering, well, everything.

What you didn't know was that Steve had purposely _not_ sat there for exactly that reason. He wanted to respect your boundaries, for one, and for two, he honestly didn’t trust himself around you, not after the stunt he'd pulled. In the end, though, he was glad that he stayed. The movie was absolutely terrible, and he got a kick out of it just as much as you did. Hitler was portrayed in a negative light, which was great, and it was even better that his ‘girlfriend,’ the spy, was so bad at her job and he _still_ couldn’t figure it out. While Steve appreciated that, what he liked more was spending time with you.

Unfortunately, you were sauced. You put on pretty good front so as not to appear drunk, but tonight it wasn’t intentional; it had just become second nature to you now due to your job. And, quite the opposite, not once did Steve touch the alcohol. You got the impression that he preferred beer or spirits.

As the full extent of your inebriation started to set in, you found yourself staring less at the movie and more at him. God, he was flawless and so, so sexy even when he wasn’t trying to be. He was literally just sitting there, but all you wanted to do was get up, go over, and mount him like a stallion. Every now and then, Steve leaned over to take a piece of cheese or a grape - a simple movement, really - and when he licked his fingers, it lit a fire within you that just wouldn’t quit.

It didn’t take long for you to polish off the rest of the wine. There wasn’t much of it left, anyway, and you didn’t want it to go down the drain. At least, that’s what you told yourself. The real reason was because your nerves were shot.

That was a mistake.

The credits started to roll sooner than you would have liked. It was about four o’clock, now, per the clock on your phone. Even though you knew how late it was, there was just something about him that made you want to stay with him, spend time with him… maybe even sleep with him. No, that was definitely just the alcohol. With a heavy sigh, you unsteadily got to your feet and stretched, doing your best to ignore the growing heat between your legs, the lingering soreness in your muscles, and the fact that you’d had far too much to drink.

“You alright?”

When you turned your head to look at Steve, you swayed a little. “Peachy keen.”

You weren’t. You’d drank quite a bit, and he knew it, judging by the amused expression on his face as he pulled himself up out of the armchair. God, with even that simple action you could see his muscles flex and strain under his shirt. He wasn’t even doing it on purpose, which made it about ten times worse.

“Here." He held out his hand to you. “I’ll help you up to your room.”

How chivalrous. You wanted to swoon.

“But the mess—?” 

Steve shook his head. “I’ll take care of it, doll. Come on.”

Your face heated at the casual address, and even more so when you took his hand, your skin tingling at the warmth of his touch. Still, you felt guilty letting him clean up after you, but you were in no state to try and collect the leftover plates and glasses without dropping them. Your words slurred just a little as you apologized, “I'm sorry for the trouble. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Nat, and…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured you as he eased you down the hallway. “Everyone needs to let loose once in a while.”

“Do you?” you asked him. 

He pondered that question for a moment, before he answered, “Not as much as I should.”

“Well, that’s no good,” you said with a frown. “Have a drink with me next time.”

 _Next time._ The phrase warmed his heart, but he got the feeling that it was just the alcohol talking. “Next time?”

You didn’t notice what you said until he mentioned it, and then you found yourself flustered, drunkenly babbling, “I shouldn’t have assumed– I mean, I’m a mess so I totally understand if you don’t want to—”

Steve said your name and stopped walking, giving your hand a gentle tug to stop you, too. "Hey," he said as you spun around to face him, swaying slightly. “I’m kidding. That sounds great.”

The halls, unlike the living room, were still dimly lit, and with the television switched off, it was quiet - almost unnervingly so. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your racing heartbeat in your ears as you looked up into his kind blue eyes, feeling absolutely minuscule in front of him. He was so tall, a fact you’d never fully realized until now. You loved it. 

Despite your inebriated state, you didn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes flickered down to your lips.

You needed to say something, anything, to break this tension, otherwise you’d do something you would absolutely regret in the morning. You’d always prided yourself in your professionalism: you weren’t the type to sleep with a coworker, and you didn’t plan to start today despite how incredibly tempting the prospect was.

That thought sobered you up a little.

“Do you—” you began, throat dry, “Do you have a mission in the morning, too?”

Your sudden question brought him back to reality. “Oh, yeah. With Romanoff.”

You grimaced and gently released his hand, not wanting to take up any more of his time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”

“I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions,” he teased, “being 96 and all.”

Right. Of course. You knew his backstory, but having him come right out and tell you something like that came as a bit of a shock. Here you were, in your mid-twenties, being attracted to someone who'd been born nearly a full century prior. How stupid of you to assume that you'd be able to relate to _him_ , someone who had grown up during the Great Depression. There was literally nothing in common between the two of you, no foundation upon which to even build a friendship, let alone a relationship. You felt like a moron.  

Well, you certainly swooned, but it wasn’t because of his chivalry.

“Whoa, hey.” Steve caught you easily as you fell, with one arm around your lower back. “Do you want to sit down?”

Your fingers embedded themselves loosely in his shirt as a flush of shame crawled up your neck. God, you were an idiot. Even now, you loved how strong his chest felt under your fingertips, the way he held you so securely, his warmth—

Your eyes fluttered shut, then, and your head lulled back as your consciousness began to fade. You could vaguely feel him pull you closer, and when he said your nickname again, you thought that his voice sounded so far away. It barely registered when he hooked his other arm under your knees to lift you up; instead, for a brief moment, it felt like you were floating.

That was the last thing you remembered.


	4. Chapter 4

You didn’t wake until the early afternoon.

It felt like you’d been hit by a truck. Your head was throbbing, your body was aching, and you were nauseous, not to mention the embarrassing fact that you'd very likely made a fool of yourself after drinking so much. Of course, you should have expected all of the above after somehow polishing off nearly two entire bottles of wine. How Natasha was able to hold her liquor the way she did, you weren’t sure, but you liked to think she wasn’t human. In some ways, she wasn’t.

Your showers normally took about ten minutes, but today it took half an hour. You moved in slow motion as you washed up, brushed your teeth, and got dressed into something more presentable than your rumpled clothing from the night before. You were sorely tempted to just go back to bed, both to sleep and to avoid the embarrassment of running into Steve in the hallway, but your sleep schedule was screwed up enough already as it was and you didn’t want to make it worse. There was at least a small comfort in knowing that that he was likely still out on his mission with Natasha.

The trek downstairs to the kitchen was uneventful. You pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water: your breakfast, for the very thought of food make you want to puke. Then you popped a couple ibuprofen into your mouth and swallowed them down, before you flopped down onto the sofa you’d used last night and turned on the TV.

There was something on the news about a bombing in the Middle East. That was nothing new. The loss of lives was certainly devastating, but it no longer had the same impact on you as it used to when you were younger. Once upon a time, you’d gone on missions to prevent those kind of tragedies, and for the most part you'd been successful. Then, on one particular occasion, you had failed and the loss of young lives was so significant that you hadn’t been in the field since. Instead, you went to therapy.

The coffee table was clean. It seemed that Steve had made good on his promise to clean up after you and Natasha, despite needing to rest before his mission. That made you feel guilty. You drank far too much and wound up not being able to clean up after yourself, let alone make it back to your room on your own. For some reason, probably because of the alcohol, you felt like you could trust him, and in the end you completely let your guard down. It was strange and a little unsettling, the effect he had on you: you _wanted_ to trust him, as stupid and naive as it was. Even though he'd since apologized, the fact remained that he hadn't had your consent when he kissed you. 

Frowning, you changed the channel, trying to distract yourself from your thoughts.

While you couldn’t really remember the specifics, you could definitely recall how secure his muscular arms felt around you when he’d lifted you into them. You could still feel the lull of your head against his strong shoulder as he carried you up the stairs, the clean, spicy scent of his cologne – or laundry detergent, or deodorant, even, you weren’t exactly sure – wafting through your nose. He’d been so gentle, so careful in setting you down upon your bed that you didn’t even know you’d made it there until you woke up again.

Your face heated up. Whether it was due to the fuzzy memory of him taking care of you or the realization that you were an idiot, you weren't entirely sure. 

Wanda took a seat beside you on the sofa, then, but you lacked the energy to even startle. Instead, you regarded her with a single weary nod. In the muted sunlight streaming into the room, you noticed that her makeup was flawless, a stark contrast to your bare face and dark circles and you felt a pang of envy. She was gorgeous.

“How are you settling in?” she asked you kindly.

“It’s better than I could have hoped for. Everyone’s been so welcoming.” Especially Steve, and you couldn’t figure out why. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

She shook her head. “After everything you’ve done, you deserve a reprieve.”

Your service history wasn’t exactly a secret, but it still surprised you that Wanda knew about it. Although it certainly made sense - anyone who came to the compound would have been vetted prior to their arrival. You were no stranger to Tony Stark, but he still would have done his homework.

Of course, you didn’t feel like you’d done much during your tenure with SHIELD: rescue missions, mostly, with the occasional infiltration and every now and then a snatch and grab. It was on one of the former when the school was blown to hell, and only by sheer luck did you survive. Twenty-eight students and teachers, along with your partner, had not. You still received phone calls every now and then from the two little girls you did manage to save, but those only served to trigger memories that you’d rather forget.

Just like Wanda had done now. Despite that, you gave her a half-smile in thanks so as not to be rude.

She seemed to sense that it wasn’t exactly a topic you liked to discuss, and turned her attention to the TV. You appreciated how perceptive she was. The silence that fell over you both wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward or tense. You know that she, just like you, had gone through some terrible things and in some way Tony had saved her once, too.

He was the reason why, one and a half years after the worst day of your life, you were still here, still working in the intelligence community. For that, you’d forever be grateful.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day seemed to drag, until, well, it didn’t. Because your sleep schedule was a mess, you were still awake at half past one in the morning when you heard it. The soft sound of the Quinjet's landing didn’t draw your attention nearly as much as the shouting, just barely audible through the small gap in your bedroom window. You’d only cracked it a little as you started to settle in for the night, wanting to feel the cool evening breeze as you slept, and thankfully, it offered the perfect amount of leeway to hear the commotion on the landing strip.

You peered out the window and saw six people, all clothed in black, in the midst of a heated argument as they exited the plane. One of them was on a stretcher, writhing in pain, shouting louder than the rest.

There was no medical team to greet them.

The adrenaline instantly seemed to dull your soreness and nausea as you sprang into action, snatching up your first aid kit, a small red duffel bag that you’d always kept for emergencies. Perhaps it was overkill to have it here at the Avengers Facility, but you were still in the process of unpacking and you hadn’t yet decided what to do with it.

The trip downstairs seemed to take just seconds before you were outside, the chunky heels of your boots ripping into the soft grass as you ran to their location.

Natasha was the first to spot you sprinting across the field in the darkness. Their communications array had been damaged during the mission, and they hadn’t been able to call ahead for medical. Clint had sustained a deep wound to his thigh, a gunshot, and of course someone hadn’t replenished the Quinjet’s first aid kit. While his injury wasn’t a matter of life or death, it was severe enough that the tensions had been high amidst the team’s return to the compound. Add that to the fact that the mission had been a complete and utter failure, and everyone was at each other’s throats. Even Steve hadn’t been able to keep the peace.

As Natasha pushed the stretcher toward the building, her voice rang clear over the argument as she called over to you, “Gunshot wound, right thigh.”

You slammed your bag down at the bottom of the stretcher and then hopped atop it in one fluid motion, settling yourself above Clint’s lower legs. This allowed your friend and one other person you didn’t recognize to continue pushing the stretcher along. In the heat of the moment, you’d spotted Steve among the team but you were too focused on Clint’s injury to care. Your apologies and embarrassment from last night would have to wait.

“For fuck’s sake,” you snapped, ripping into the first aid kit for supplies, “Quit waving your dicks around, and—” you nodded at another guy you didn’t recognize, “ _put some pressure on it_ , would you?”

He quickly did as you asked, pressing his gloved hand against Clint’s wound to stop the bleeding.

“Sorry, kid,” Clint winced but his tone was playful, “I’m a little busy here.”

It had been probably six months since you’d last seen him, and he looked like hell – not that being shot helped any. You weren’t as close to him as Natasha, but the two of you had a good working relationship and you’d always trusted him to have your back. Tonight, you had his.

You grinned down at him and popped the cap to some sterile solution. “Come on, Barton, don’t tell me you’re getting too old for this.”

He let out a soft snort at your attitude. "Of course not."

Then he hissed as you squirted the solution into his wound.

Tearing open a packet of gauze with your teeth, you glanced over at Steve. “I take it things didn’t go too well.”

Steve was walking alongside the stretcher as the last man in the group radioed in about the incident, finally having enough reception now that they were on the ground. He met your eyes for a moment, and then he looked away, staring straight ahead. A muscle ticked in his jaw before he tersely answered your question, “Sure didn’t."

He blamed himself for this. If he'd done his job properly, it never would have happened. Still, seeing you there, seeing your determined face, made him feel like everything was going to be alright. Your very presence was a balm, and watching you sass Barton and the rest of his team reminded him of the many situations the two of you had once survived together. 

You easily noticed Steve's tense demeanour but forced yourself to file it away for later. There were more pressing matters to address, so you brought the gauze to Clint’s wound and eyeballed the guy who was putting pressure on it for a moment. He immediately lifted his hand just long enough for you to slide it under, before he replaced his hand and added a bit more pressure when you made a small gesture to indicate as much. Then you did the same with another couple of pieces, ensuring the wound was fully packed.

Steve very much liked the fact that you were able to command respect with a single look. It wasn’t often, but when the shit hit the fan, it was clear that you knew what you were doing. He’d seen it before, the way people gravitated toward you and put their trust in you to take care of a bad situation. This was one of those times, and he found himself doing the same. 

“Stay with me, Barton,” you barked, snapping your fingers in front of his face. It looked like he was starting to go into shock, if his pale skin and unfocused eyes were any indication. “Listen to me. Come on.”

Clint grunted, but he didn’t respond any more than that. You were in the building, now, being wheeled toward what you assumed was the medical wing. The lighting here was much brighter, and you could immediately tell that his pupils were dilated. That wasn’t a good sign. You leaned over more to gently palpate his scalp, feeling for any sign that he may have hit his head. Sure enough, you found a large bump and took in a sharp breath, doing your best to keep him conscious.

When you lifted your eyes to peer ahead, you saw that the medical team was finally starting to arrive, and you sat back on your heels to address them.

“GSW, upper right thigh. Single entry point, no exit. Bullet’s still in there.” Then you added grimly, “Possible TBI.”

Natasha’s eyes immediately shot to you. She wasn't a doctor, but even she knew the lingo. Clint had been just fine on the way back to the compound, but you'd just said that he might have a brain injury. 

“Got it,” the doctor, a small Asian woman, told you and you hopped down from the stretcher, slinging your half-zipped duffel back over your shoulder. “We’ll keep you posted.”

You nodded as she and her team wheeled Clint to the operating room. Then you released the long, unsteady breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The rest of the group had taken a step back, and a couple of them started to take seats nearby, in order to wait it out – but not Natasha or Steve. No, they stood with you.

“How serious is it?” Natasha asked you quietly, staring down the hallway where Clint had been taken. You knew that she wanted the truth, not fluff.

“Not good. He must have hit his head pretty hard.” When she started to chew her lip anxiously, taking in the information you provided, you placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He’ll survive, Nat. He’ll make it through.”

Steve’s voice drew your attention away from her. “How did you know?”

"About what?" 

“His head,” he clarified. “He was talking to us just fine. He _seemed_ fine until we got here. How did you know?”

“His pupils. And the huge knot back here.” You gestured to the back of your head, and then crossed your arms to address the root of the issue. “The hell were you guys even up to? Why wasn’t his wound dressed? Where was medical?”

Steve didn’t look too pleased with your observations. “Comms were shot out. We couldn’t call ahead.”

“Don’t forget about the bastard who didn’t replenish the first aid kit,” Natasha spat angrily. “If I ever find out who it was, they’re dead.”

You didn’t blame her, but part of the blame fell on them, too. Someone should have double checked that it had been stocked prior to the mission, along with the rest of their supplies - but it would be crass to mention that right now. Instead, you silently waited with them until Clint was out of surgery.

 

* * *

  

The sun was just starting to rise when you finally heard some news: Clint had made it through, just like you all were hoping for. While the doctors were concerned about his head injury, from what they could tell it was relatively minor but they unfortunately wouldn’t know for sure until he woke up. He would still be out for the next few hours, and no visitors would be permitted until then – so you, Steve, and Natasha slowly made your way back to the main building where you prepared a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.

For the most part, it had gone uneaten. None of you had an appetite. Instead, the three of you were sitting around the kitchen table in complete and utter silence.

Natasha had perched herself at the edge of her seat, elbows resting on the table with her hands clasped in front of her worried face. Steve, on the other hand, was leaning back against the backrest of the chair, arms crossed, jaw set.

It hadn’t been a good day.

The fabric of your shirt stuck unpleasantly to your skin as you slowly peeled back your bloodied sleeves. What's worse was that you’d already washed your hands three times and Clint’s blood still remained under your fingernails. This wasn’t a memory that you’d forget anytime soon. You’d been certified as a field medic a couple of years ago, and only a handful of times had it actually bothered you to use your training like this. 

Steve watched as you anxiously picked at your nails, your lips pressed into a grim line. His voice was gravelly when he said, “Thank you.”

You met his eyes briefly, and then you looked away, back at your hands. “You don't need to thank me. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there when it happened.”

“That’s not on you,” Natasha said quietly, barely above a whisper. She knew your history, your struggles - why you hadn’t been back in the field for over a year. You'd made a choice, and she didn’t blame you for it. Not after what you’d experienced. 

“Yeah, it is,” you argued. “I should have been there.”

This time, the silence that befell the three of you was uncomfortably tense. 

You were making the same basic mistake as last time, after the very incident that took you out of the field to begin with. You were stuck on the what-ifs. You blamed yourself for not being able to do more, and it was especially stupid now because you hadn’t even been on the mission. There was nothing you could have done. Instead, you were making this entire situation about yourself and that made you feel even worse.

Maybe it was a bit presumptuous of you to assume that you’d even be able to keep up with them in the field. They were Avengers, after all, although that didn’t change the fact that Clint had been wounded and left without a lick of medical assistance until the team arrived back at the compound. It was only by chance that you just happened to overhear their arrival.

“Come with us next time.”

Your head immediately shot up and you looked over at Steve, feeling a mix of emotions as you processed what he said. He wanted you to come along on their next mission. _Captain America_ wanted you to join him.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek as you considered his offer, at least until you realized the path you were going down. Then you couldn’t even believe that you were even considering it at all. Not after what you’d been through. No, you couldn’t do this to yourself again.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

It was a simple question, but you bristled at it. He knew why. He must have. If Wanda had known your history, there was no doubt in your mind that he did, too - and when Natasha shot him a look of warning that plainly said not to press the issue, it only confirmed your suspicions.

You winced, then, and glanced back down at your fingers to find that you’d just ripped at a hangnail. If you kept this up, your fingertips would be raw and bleeding by the end of the night. It wasn’t worth your mental health to do this again. You stopped picking and instead crossed your arms around yourself, both to prevent yourself from doing it again and to protect yourself from this conversation.

“The last time I was out in the field, a lot of people died. Children.” A lump formed in your throat at the memory, and you couldn’t bring yourself to even mention your partner. Instead, your tone became more heated, irate as you rounded on him, “But you knew that already, didn’t you, Steve? Why would you even ask me that?”

In that moment, Steve knew that you couldn’t see the good you had done, not really. The facts were there – you’d kept two children safe, and saved countless more by rendering aid to whatever survivors you could find – but you refused to see that. All you could focus on were the lives that had been lost. What stood out to him the most was how you didn’t even acknowledge that yours had nearly been one of them.

His voice was soft, not accusatory, when he followed your question with one of his own. “Why did you come here?”

“To bring down Hydra,” you replied automatically. That had been your mission since Tony had pulled you and those two little girls from the debris on that fateful day, and you wouldn’t stop until you succeeded. You had come here, to the Avengers compound, because he’d offered you a place to stay in exchange for your assistance in finishing Hydra off for good.

“I didn’t ask for your assignment, Agent,” Steve said sharply, and your back immediately straightened in reflex to the authority in his voice. “I want to know why you’re _here_.”

As you stared into his striking blue eyes, you felt a bit unsettled and anxiously brought your hands back atop the table. Your clammy skin stuck unpleasantly to the wood. It sounded like he was asking the same question in two different ways, but your answer clearly wasn’t the one he was seeking. He wanted to know something else, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Then it hit you.

Even after everything that had happened, you still couldn’t seem to run away. You’d seen too much death, too many horrors throughout your career and despite it all, you continued to fight. Even if it was from behind a desk, you continued to find yourself in the thick of it, just in a different way.

Just like tonight. Tonight you had, without hesitation, gone back out in the field.

A literal field.

It was that sudden realization that made you start picking at your nails again, but Natasha gently placed her hand atop yours and you turned your eyes to her. Her kind, reassuring smile was what helped you reach a decision. It was time.

“I want to help,” you answered finally, looking back at Steve with fierce determination. “Put me to work, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's liking this so far! Thanks so much for your kudos and comments, they mean so much to me! <3


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days were a bit of a blur. You barely saw Steve or Natasha, let alone Clint despite his release from the medical ward. It was unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – due to all of the things on your to-do list for approval as a field agent: fitness tests, stress tests, a psych evaluation, a polygraph, and then a final assessment to see where you’d best slot into the team. Thus far you’d passed them all with flying colours, save for the last one. That was today.

You arrived at exactly eight in the morning, right on the dot for your scheduled assessment. The sparring room was brightly lit and sparsely decorated. Two of the walls were glass-paned, with one offering a full view of the hallway and elevators, the other of the empty gym. A couple of punching bags and training dummies hung from the rafters in the corners of the room, but aside from that, it was just one big empty space. At least the floors were padded, because you didn’t know who would be testing your self-defense skills and you were likely about to be pummelled.

The sound of a door sliding closed caught your attention, and you turned back around to face it. There stood your assessor: Sam Wilson, the Falcon. From what you understood, he was a relatively normal person, not an enhanced individual and for that, you were thankful. You gave him a quick once-over and found that he wasn’t wearing his wings; probably too hard to use them in such an enclosed area.

Sam gave you an upwards nod in greeting. “You the newbie?”

“Sure am,” you said cheerfully, walking over and holding out your hand for a handshake. You’d lost count of the number of those you’d given over the last week. When he shook your hand, you gave your first name and a firm squeeze in challenge.  

“Sam,” he told you with a grin, squeezing back just as firmly before he let you go. “You ready?”

You shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”

Overnight you’d made yourself nervous, thinking that this assessment would be strict like the rest, with all sorts of rules and regulations to follow. That didn’t seem to be the case. When Sam opted to play some music from his phone, [some nice R&B](https://open.spotify.com/track/1JeRFLoIpWHUgYogZCNUPY?si=EbnRA9whSLa8rvkq2o9tmg), you immediately felt more at ease. It made the near-empty room less quiet, less sterile. 

Sam’s first punch was fast but easy to dodge, as was yours. The second and third were more of the same and the two of you quickly found that you were evenly-matched. You landed a couple of punches, and he managed to catch you out with a kick here and there, but overall you were at a bit of a standstill.

"Not bad," Sam commented at one point when you slipped right out of his headlock, and he was right. You were a little bit surprised that you'd retained so much of your training when you hadn't sparred in quite some time.

It rang true that you were rusty, though, and your breathing started to become slightly laboured as the minutes passed. The adrenaline rushing through your veins seemed to dull your other senses as you focused entirely on your opponent, so much that you didn’t notice the arrival of another one – at least not until the last minute, when you kicked Sam hard in the chest to push yourself back in an attempt to dodge the metal fist flying towards your face. 

It was not a good landing. Your back slammed harshly into the padded floor and you let out a pathetic groan. Even though the floor was soft, the impact still hurt.

Above you stood Sergeant Barnes in all his glory, flexing the fingers of his metal hand. Even though you knew you’d lose if you went up against him, all you wanted to do was wipe the smirk off his face. You didn’t like being caught off guard. He offered his hand to you, the same one he’d nearly hit you with, to help you up: a peace offering.

Then Sam started coughing, which drew your attention.  

“Damn, girl,” he wheezed, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “You got some fight in you, huh?”

You must have knocked the wind out of him if the rasp in his voice was any indication.

“Sorry, Sam,” you called out to him, grimacing as you accepted Sergeant Barnes’ outstretched hand. You were still sore from the brutal training Steve had put you through, along with the other fitness tests, and landing hard on your back hadn't helped matters any. As it was, your muscles were screaming at you to take a break.

The metal was biting cold to the touch, a stark contrast to the gentle way he pulled you back to your feet. You weren’t really feeling all that grateful considering it was his fault you were on the floor to begin with, but it was a nice gesture and you thanked him anyway. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Bucky,” he corrected you warmly. “Call me Bucky.”

“Bucky it is,” you repeated with a smile, and when he let you go, you slowly slid back into your fighting stance. “Am I fighting you now, or…?”

“You already passed the test,” he explained, and before you had a chance to comment on your victory, he grinned at you. “Besides, I'm too strong for you, sweetheart.”

If you were smart, you would have stopped there – but no, you were a competitive idiot. “Oh, yeah? Let's see about that.”

Bucky’s eyes shone with amusement as he charged at you again, much faster than you were expecting. As much as you didn’t fancy getting punched in the face by a hunk of metal, it was exhilarating to go up against someone whose skills clearly outmatched your own. He was an Avenger for a reason, what with the super soldier serum running through his veins and all. You were very quickly reminded of that fact.

His first punch hit hard. You could already feel your bicep starting to bruise where you’d blocked it at the last second. The next few were similar, although thankfully you were able to parry them instead of taking the full impact like you'd done with the first. If nothing else, you were a quick learner.

A well-placed kick to his side got him to back off for a moment, giving you a second to rest. Your upper arm ached where he’d landed that first good punch.

“Don’t tell me you’re already worn out,” Bucky teased.

You took another breath in through your nose and shook out your arm, doing your best to ignore the pain. Then you taunted, “Aren’t you?”

This time, you made the first move. He easily dodged a couple of your punches, along with the kick you threw in his direction and instead he caught your ankle. For a split second, he looked smug as hell; then he yanked, which quite literally swept you off your feet.

For the second time, your back smacked against the padded floor. 

Sam’s laughter echoed through the training room as you swore like a sailor. You had already known that you were outmatched, but the fact that Bucky was able to take you down in literal seconds had you fuming, not to mention feeling a little insecure. So what if you _had_ passed the final test? If you were really going to be heading out on missions with him, with Steve, with the Avengers, then you desperately needed to improve your skills.

Bucky said your name, then, and you peered up at him. His features were soft as he looked at you, and he held out his hand to you again, the flesh one this time. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve been working hard.”

If he’d used any other tone, you'd have been offended; his words were patronising, but his tone was anything but. It was true that you’d overexerted yourself the last few days, and he was giving you an out as to why he’d been able to beat you. He wasn't talking down to you like you'd come to expect from men in this profession.

When you took his hand, he smiled at you - a genuine smile - and you felt your heart warm. Again, he pulled you up so easily, like you didn’t weigh a thing and you vaguely remembered that Steve had once done the same.

“Thanks, Bucky,” you told him appreciatively, feeling much more grateful this time.

That was when the door to the training room opened, and speak of the devil, it was the good Captain himself. In an instant, Bucky quickly let you go and took a noticeable step back. Why that simple action made you feel like a deer in the headlights, you weren’t sure, but all of a sudden your cheeks were hot and your skin was tingling. As you rubbed your sweaty palm on the soft fabric of your leggings, you blamed it on the fact that Bucky's body temperature, like Steve's, ran much hotter than your own.

You didn’t miss the strange, almost unreadable look Steve gave Bucky before he checked in with you. “Hey, how’d you go?”

“Apparently I passed,” you offered, before you snorted derisively. “Plenty of room for improvement, though.”

At that, you pointedly turned your eyes to Bucky, but he didn’t meet your gaze.

There was a pause as Steve finally took in your appearance: the dark circles under your eyes, the flush of exertion on your face, the bruising on your arms and legs. Most of them were from your other tests and had faded considerably, but there were a couple in particular that stood out, large and dark. The skin around them was raised and red, indicating that they were fresh.

He frowned at Bucky. “You didn’t go too hard on her, did you?” 

“ _I_ didn’t,” Sam piped up, gingerly walking over to the three of you and it looked like he was just as sore as you, “but he sure as hell did.”

Steve’s jaw tensed. “She’s got bruises, Buck.”

You almost wanted to roll your eyes. His concern was sweet, but unnecessary. “Don’t blame him, Steve. I wanted the challenge.”

“No, he's right.” Bucky spoke hesitantly, like he’d gotten caught up in the excitement of it all, “I shouldn’t have gone so hard on you. I guess I just remembered—” He stopped that train of thought, then, before started again in annoyance, “Damn it, can’t we just tell her, Steve?”

“No,” Steve stated, crossing his arms. “We can’t. You know why.”

“Tell me what?”

Bucky sighed. “See? She wants to know.”

Steve shot him another look this time, one that said in no uncertain terms to shut the hell up. Bucky held his hands up in surrender and didn’t say another word.

Now, Steve Rogers was an honest man. He hated to lie, and he very rarely did so, only when it was absolutely necessary - so he let out a long, unsteady breath before he lied right to your face: “Go get certified, doll. Then we’ll talk.”

And you, of course, believed him without a second thought. The bright smile, along with the little wave, you gave him as you left the room to go finish the process made his heart ache.

As Steve watched you leave, Sam spoke up from his left, “You aren’t gonna tell her, are you?”

It was less of a question and more of a statement.

“No,” Bucky responded sullenly. “He’s not.”


	6. Chapter 6

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you slept for a good twelve hours after that, but it did. You were worn out both mentally and physically, and while you needed the rest, your nightmares got hold of you for the first time in a long, long while and you wished you’d been able to wake up sooner. That sentiment was solidified with a quick check of your bedside clock, which indicated that it was a little after ten at night. You'd only meant to nap for a couple hours.

Crackling flames and piercing screams from the worst day of your life reverberated in your brain as you pulled yourself out of bed, limbs aching. You made your way to the bathroom, where you took a good look at the multicoloured bruises littering your battered body. Most of them had faded, but a couple of them were obviously new, dark and tender. Now that a few hours had passed, there was a very distinct imprint of four hard metal knuckles on the flesh of your upper arm.

A shower helped soothe your sore muscles, but it unfortunately did nothing for your troubled mind. It certainly made sense that your memories from the bombing had started to resurface. The stress of recent events was catching up to you: from SHIELD's corruption and your brush with death to your escape to the compound, not to mention the added fatigue from your field evaluation. You'd finally been certified, at least, but it wasn’t over yet. You still needed to hone your skills and improve, otherwise you’d wind up getting another person killed. Another partner.

That intrusive thought was what carried you back into the dimly-lit hallway, sometime after eleven. You needed to eat something, but you weren’t hungry. Maybe some cardio would be a good distraction. Your body wasn’t ready for weights or sparring again; in fact, the very thought of punching something made you cringe, because your knuckles were already bruised and sore. What you thought you  _could_ manage was a light jog on the elliptical. 

Something new in the hallway drew your attention, and you took a brief pause: one of the other doors on your floor was open, further down the long hall near the stairs. You hadn't yet found out who your neighbours were, but then again, it had been a busy few days and you weren't exactly on a normal sleep schedule. 

There was no doubt in your mind that your room, a corner suite, had the best view on the third floor. Since your arrival, you’d been wondering why Tony had given you such a nice room but you hadn't been able to piece together why until now. When you craned your neck to peer into the unfamiliar bedroom, you realized that it had more than likely been left vacant by choice. 

Apparently, you shared the floor with Bucky. That shouldn't have come as a surprise either, but it did. With his history, you got the feeling that he liked to have multiple escape routes and he almost certainly would have wanted faster access to the stairs. Your room was the furthest away from them and, while he'd easily be able to survive the three story drop from your bedroom window, it probably wasn't ideal for a number of reasons. 

You observed that Bucky’s room had nothing in common with yours aside from the soft lighting. The windows were much smaller, more easily covered with some particularly dark curtains that blocked the daylight. The décor was simple: there was a small mahogany dresser on the left-hand wall, directly across from his matching bed and side table. The sheets and plush duvet were a tangled mess of black and grey, and upon them lay the man himself, relaxing as he thumbed through a well-worn novel. He wore a plain black tank top and sweats, and his sock-clad feet were crossed at the ankles. 

“Morning,” he greeted casually, not looking up from his book.

You jumped at his sudden greeting and spoke without thinking, “Good morning.”

He turned his eyes up to you, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “It’s nighttime, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” you said blankly, leaning against the doorframe. Your thoughts were jumbled, and you didn't know what else to say. 

“If you’re looking for Steve, he’s down the hall.”

Oh. Well, it looked like Steve’s room was on your floor, too, because of _course_ it was. The new knowledge of your close proximity to the two of them made you feel a little uneasy. In that moment, you found yourself wondering if that was just how the boys were, pet names and all, or if they were being overly familiar with you. It was a stupid thought, really, but you’d woke up in such a funk from your nightmares and now your brain was clinging to something – anything – else as a distraction. As much as you secretly enjoyed being treated so kindly, you couldn't help but be a little wary. Usually when people were nice to you, they had an agenda. What theirs was, if any, you hadn't yet figured out. 

At your radio silence, Bucky eyed you for a moment before he spoke again, “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” you said absently, fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. “What are you reading?”

“1984.” His answer was short and to the point, and he gently closed the novel, setting it on his bedside table so that he could give you his full attention. There was something about your body language that put him on edge. “You sure you’re alright?”

You chewed your lip and ignored his question, instead taking a hesitant few steps into the room. You knew it wasn’t really proper for you to go into a man’s bedroom like this so late at night, especially in the time period he was from, but you weren't exactly in the best headspace to be making smart decisions. “What do you think of it? 1984.”

“It’s interesting.” Something was definitely wrong. “Have you read it?”

“A long time ago,” was all you said, before you nodded to the foot of the bed. “Can I…?”

Bucky moved his feet to the side so that you could take a seat. “Sure.”

You sat down on his soft bedding with a grateful, albeit nervous smile. When you started to pick at your fingernails, you didn’t even notice; all you could focus on was your desperate need for a distraction. This conversation wasn't enough to keep your worries at bay, and your thoughts were spiralling. 

“Trouble sleeping?” he ventured tentatively. 

You let out a slow, shaky breath. “Something like that.”

There was a lingering pause as Bucky took in your weary features. The last few days hadn’t been kind to you, but this didn't seem to be from that. You appeared haunted, almost. It was a distinct feeling that he knew all too well.

“You’re up late,” you commented after a moment. “Couldn’t put it down?”

It took him a second to realize that you were talking about the book again.

“Something like that,” he echoed, and his eyes flickered briefly to your hands before they met yours again.

Your fingers immediately stilled. He’d noticed your nasty habit: the way you anxiously picked at your nails and the surrounding skin when you were out of your comfort zone. It had become increasingly more common over the last few days, and you were bordering on making yourself bleed again despite your best efforts not to.

Clearing your throat, you got back on your feet and made your way back to the door, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. This was a mistake. You should have just gone to the gym. Now someone had seen you for who you really were, the anxious wreck of a person that you'd somehow managed to bury under months of therapy; and now, because of your nightmares, she'd been unearthed again. 

“I get them too,” he called out to you, and you froze in your tracks, gripping the door frame with one hand. He didn’t even have to say the word for you to know what he meant. Nightmares. 

The quick look you shot him revealed exactly how scared you were to even acknowledge it out loud, and instead, you scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

“If you ever want someone to talk to,” he said carefully, “I’ll listen. I understand.”

Your mood flipped instantly, like a switch, and you snapped, “You don’t know anything about me.”

Bucky’s jaw noticeably tensed. Oh, he knew plenty, but he couldn’t say a thing. His words were casual, contrasting your bristly demeanour, “Then talk to me. Tell me.”

As if it were that easy. At his careless response, your tone rose an octave. “What makes you think I’d want to talk to—”

“Shh, hey, it's okay,” came another voice from behind you, and you whirled around to face Steve, startled by his sudden arrival. Your nails – or what was left of them, at least – bit harshly into the wood of the door frame as you did so, thick paint chipping under your fingertips. It hurt.

Your heart started to race. You felt cornered like an animal, trapped between the two of them even though that couldn’t be further from the truth and unsurprisingly, you lashed out.  

“ _You_ don’t know me either,” you spat at him. You knew you were being unreasonable, but you couldn’t stop the nasty words spilling out of your mouth as your heart pounded uncomfortably within the confines your chest. “God damn it, Steve, stop acting like you do. I mean, you obviously think you do, because you _kissed me_ —”

Your breath started to come out in short, harsh pants, then, and you tried and failed to focus on your breathing as dark spots dotted your vision. You were too vulnerable, here, too on edge, too worked up. Why you thought it was a good idea to strike up a conversation in this state, you weren’t sure, and furthermore how you even passed the psych eval was beyond you. Your long stint in therapy had helped considerably, but you clearly still had some trouble coping. It wasn’t getting back in the field that worried you now so much as the aftermath: when you returned to the safety of your bed, alone, with your intrusive thoughts and pathetic survivor's guilt.

“I know. I know.” Steve spoke to you softly, kindly, with a certain familiarity that made you desperately want to trust him. “You're right. I’m sorry, doll.”

Just that single word triggered the hysterics.

“Doll? _Doll?_   God, you keep– both of you, you keep—” A sob escaped you, then, and your knees went weak. You slid down the wall, burying your face in your hands, not wanting them to see your tears. Your voice was muffled, but the two of them could still easily hear you. “Stop being so _nice_ to me! I don’t—I don’t deserve it, not after—”

This was a nightmare all on its own, breaking down in front of Steve and Bucky. You barely even knew either of them, and in the short time since you’d met them, you'd done nothing to warrant their kindness - anyone's kindness.

Maybe you weren’t ready to go back in the field. Not yet. Not after what happened to your partner. If you went back in the field, then it would happen again. Maybe you'd even manage to get an Avenger killed next time. 

That thought in particular made you cry even harder. 

Steve said your nickname quietly, like a plea, before his resolve cracked and he pulled you into his arms. He was no stranger to seeing you this way, but it never got any easier. Even after all this time, he still found himself wanting to help you. 

You stiffened at first, but the comforting smell of him made you pliable like putty and you leaned into him, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. It scared you how easily he was able to get you to trust him, especially now, when you were the most vulnerable you’d been in a very long time. It had been over a year since your last panic attack, and you certainly didn’t miss the feeling, the distinct loss of control. You felt like you were losing your mind.

The fabric of his shirt brushing against your cheek gave you something to focus on, something tactile, something  _real_. As you worked to control your breathing and your frenzied thoughts, Steve stroked your hair and whispered sweet words of encouragement into your ear to help you ride it out, things like, “I've got you, sweetheart,” and “You're safe.” It was like he knew exactly what to say. You caught yourself thinking that he must have done this before, because if he hadn't, then damn, was he talented.

It only took a couple of minutes for you to calm down. Record timing, really. 

When you started feeling a bit more normal, you sniffled, pulling back just enough to shamefully meet his eyes. Where you expected to see judgement, however, instead you found him looking at you so tenderly that you nearly forgot how to breathe again. Steve used his thumb to smooth away a few stray hairs from your damp, flushed face, and your overheated skin tingled pleasantly at his touch.

“There you go,” he said softly. “That's it. You're okay.” 

It took a moment for you to regain enough sense to speak, and even longer for the embarrassment to kick in - and then you pulled away a bit more, stammering quickly, “God, I’m- I’m so sorry, Steve, I...”

Steve just smiled at you and shook his head, as if to tell you not to worry about it. After that, his eyes focused on something behind you. You followed his gaze and saw your other neighbour squatting there, brows furrowed in concern.

When Bucky saw that you weren't crying anymore, he breathed an audible sigh of relief and full-on shoved a box of tissues at you before he sat down on your other side, bumping his shoulder into yours. 

The ridiculous sight of it – the big bad Winter Soldier shoving some kleenex at you – made you crack a watery smile. You took one apologetically and dabbed at your red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got some, uh… issues, if you hadn’t already figured that out.”

Bucky leaned back on his hands and grinned. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. We won’t hold it against you.”

You knew he was teasing you, and you let out a particularly unladylike snort. “Gorgeous? No way. Look at me, Bucky. I’m a mess.”

Bucky shrugged. “A gorgeous mess.”

At that, you finally laughed.

You were completely mortified by the entire ordeal, of course, but something had changed. Some part of you trusted them - really, truly trusted them. It was stupid and naive, but you wanted to trust them, so you did. Somehow, it was that easy. 

Predictably, your long lost appetite chose that particular moment to come back in full force and your stomach growled.

Steve stifled a laugh as he got to his feet, extending his hand to you. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

When you took his hand, a familiar warmth settled in your chest. For the first time in a long, long while, it felt like everything would be okay. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, you guys are fantastic! Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos! Please enjoy!

Steve and Bucky followed behind you as you made your way downstairs to the kitchen. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t give any answers, but conversation still flowed just fine between the three of you.

“I’ll make you guys something,” you offered along the way, feeling a bit more like yourself with your mind set on a goal. “It’s the least I can do.”

It was, of course, false confidence with which you spoke and carried yourself. You were humiliated by how easily you’d broken down in front of them and, even worse, how you wound up in Steve’s arms. Truth be told, you weren’t entirely sure how it even happened; one minute you were hyperventilating, and the next you were on the floor, pulled safe and sound against his warm chest.

What you did know was that you hadn’t initiated it. You hadn’t asked him for help. No, he was the one to break that unspoken truce between you to keep his hands to himself. He was the one to kneel down beside you, to gather you in his arms, to stroke your hair, to whisper some of the sweetest things you’d ever heard into your ear.

He’d done it without your permission, but you didn’t mind. Somehow, you trusted him. You trusted _them_ , because surely some part of you wouldn’t let yourself be so vulnerable around people you didn’t trust.

There was just one small problem: you barely knew them.

That, you’d have to change.

 

* * *

  

The next day, you kept your true feelings close to your chest. You chose to act like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t fallen apart right in front of Steve and Bucky - when really, what they did meant the world to you. They listened to you. They helped you. They _cared_.

For the first time in a year and a half, you felt like you belonged.  

It was refreshing. While you’d only slept for a few hours after your midnight snack with them – a couple of simple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – you felt optimistic and ready to start the day. You hadn’t had another nightmare after that, but you were positive you weren’t out of the woods yet.

It was a little after nine and you were on your way downstairs for breakfast when you spotted Steve loitering at your end of the hallway. You found him staring out the lake from one of the corridor's vast panoramic windows. The weather outside matched your mood, bright and sunny and warm.

He’d come to check on you, no doubt. There was no other reason for him to be near your room when his was on the other end, past Bucky’s. For what it was worth, he’d tried to make it seem like he hadn’t been waiting for you. Bless his heart.

Upon hearing the soft click of your kitten heels on the tile, Steve shifted slightly to look over at you. The sunlight caught on his blonde hair, and for a moment, you were stunned by how handsome he was: kind blue-green eyes, soft lips, strong jawline - let alone the rest of him. If anyone in the world was flawless, it was Steve. He looked good no matter what he wore, and today, he’d opted for a tight grey tee shirt and blue jeans that accentuated his ass just like those goddamned sweatpants you loved so much.

What you also loved was the way his brows rose as he took you in. You’d put some effort into your appearance this morning, wanting to feel less like a wounded soldier and more like a normal civilian - spent a little extra time styling your hair and applying some light makeup to suit the floral sundress you’d bought two years ago and never got to wear. It made you feel good that he'd noticed.

Then again, if it was really such a stark, noticeable change, then that probably wasn’t a great look for you. Well, whatever. You didn’t really care. Nothing would ruin your good spirits today.

The silence between the two of you was just a second longer than it should have been, and you both broke it at the same time.

“Good morning—”

“Morning, doll—”

It was stupid and awkward and juvenile and you couldn’t help but smile.

He shook his head a little and met your eyes, the corners of his lips turning upwards.

Something had changed between the two of you.

“How’d you sleep?” Steve asked as you fell into step beside him. It was a leisurely stroll compared to the long strides he typically took, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Oh, like the dead. You?”

Your deadpan delivery brought a playful lilt to his voice. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Well, that was a surprise. He’d always struck you as a light sleeper, but maybe he was just as bad as you were. You really did sleep like the dead, even with your nightmares. 

“Have you been up for a while?” you ventured. What you really wanted to know was if he’d been waiting awhile, but you didn’t have the nerve to ask.

Steve studied your face for a pause, before he told you, “Not too long.”

You weren’t sure if he’d answered your actual question or the implied one, so you responded with a soft hum of acknowledgement.  

That was when the back of your hand lightly nudged his by mistake, and your heart did a startled somersault inside of your chest. Flustered, you swiftly slid your hands into your pockets of your denim jacket.

It really was juvenile. You felt like a teenager and, just like high school, there was chemistry.  

As the two of you made your way down the stairs, an unspoken question hung in the air: how were you feeling? But he didn’t ask, no, it was almost like he knew not to. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Man, that coffee smells great.”

“Yeah? I think I’ll have a cup, then,” you spoke thoughtfully, even though you didn’t feel like you needed the caffeine at all. You just wanted to spend some more time with him.

You didn’t pick up on the smell of freshly-brewed coffee until you reached the bottom of the stairs.

As you stepped over the threshold to the kitchen, Steve’s gentle hand on your lower back sent an immediate shiver through you straight to the apex of your thighs. His palm burned delightfully through the thin fabric of your dress, and when either of you moved, his fingers brushed hot, delicate linen against your hypersensitive skin.

Your breath hitched in your throat. It didn’t go unnoticed.

His eyes snapped to yours, and when they widened, you knew he’d just now picked up on what he’d done. It hadn’t been intentional, but an ingrained habit. He all but yanked his hand away, a filthy swear flying out of his mouth, “Shit! I’m sorry.”  

Shit, _you_ weren’t. You'd never heard him curse before, and it did things to you. 

“Hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth.”   

You startled at the sudden third voice and jerked your eyes over to find Sam at the stove, cooking himself breakfast. His back was turned to the two of you, and for a brief moment, you were relieved. More rumours were the last thing you needed. Then you wished Steve would put his hand right back where it was, consequences be damned.

“Hey, Sam,” you greeted casually, trying and failing to ignore the heat between your legs as you leaned your forearms against the counter. It was way, way too early for this.

“Mornin’, Spice Girl,” Sam said with a grin, stirring around some scrambled eggs in a skillet. Then he looked over at Steve with the same. “You too, Cap.”

Steve was in the middle of pulling two mugs from a cabinet and offered his friend a single nod in greeting. You couldn’t see his face, but judging by how red his ears were, you had a sneaking suspicion that he was embarrassed. Whether it was from being caught by Sam or from being too familiar with you, you couldn't guess.

Then it finally sank in what Sam had called you.  

“What?” you asked stupidly. “Spice Girl?”

Sam shrugged. “Hey, you got kick.”

God, that was a terrible joke, but it made you laugh all the same.


	8. Chapter 8

For a little while, you and Sam continued to tease each other about your sparring match. It wasn’t meant to be malicious, but to give each other some impartial feedback. He pointed out your tendency to favour your right side, particularly your kicks, and you told him that his grappling could use some work.

You didn’t notice that Steve had poured you a coffee until he casually sat it down on the counter in front of you, steam rising from the top of the white mug. You blinked at it, and then at him, before a bright smile came across your face. It was such a simple thing - domestic, really - but it made your heart flutter.

Your reaction seemed to catch Steve off-guard, because he quickly looked away, flustered. The newspaper in front of him made for a good distraction. You glimpsed a headline about baseball.

When you took a sip of your drink, though, you found that it was quite literally your perfect cup of coffee: two sugars and a dash of cream. The flavour melted onto your tongue, and you let out a pleased hum at the taste.

Resting your elbows on the counter, you held the large mug with both hands. The heat coming off of it reminded you of his hand, heavy and hot, against your lower back and you finally managed a breathy, “Thanks.”

Steve’s eyes shot back up to you at the sound, and when you caught his gaze, it was like pure electricity surged between the two of you.

“Sure,” he whispered back, his shoulder brushing against yours. His voice was soft and low near your ear, and you immediately started to chew your lip, your cheeks flushing as you attempted to tune back into what Sam was saying. Whatever other critique he may have had for you, you didn’t care at all.

 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, you’d just taken your first bite of cereal when Natasha walked into the kitchen. She looked tired. You’d pieced together over the years that she wasn’t a morning person either, a fact that was easily confirmed by the way she yawned and made her way over to the coffee pot.

“I only got back from my mission around four,” she explained through another yawn, pouring herself a cup. “Any excitement while I was gone?”

Truth be told, you hadn’t even noticed that she was gone. You’d been a little preoccupied.

“I had another one,” you responded vaguely. She would know you meant your panic attacks, considering she’d helped you through the first couple in the beginning. Sure enough, she eyed you warily which made you add, “Steve helped me out.”

Normally Natasha would have made a stupid joke about him ‘helping you out,’ but she knew exactly what your panic attacks were like. She looked doubtfully between you and Steve and back again. “No shit?”

You nodded.

“You wanna share with the class?” Sam said through a mouthful of eggs.

“Nope,” you told him lightly, taking another bite of cereal.

For now, you didn’t particularly want that little factoid about yourself floating around the compound. Too many rumours were floating around as it was. You didn’t need to add another one to the mix.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast, you remembered that you didn’t have a whole lot to do today. Your body still needed another day or two to recover before you could start going on missions. As exciting as doing your dirty laundry could be, you decided to explore the grounds a bit more than you had previously. Every morning when you looked out your bedroom window, you could just make out a little path leading toward the sparking lake, but you hadn’t yet gone to check it out.

Today was as good a day as any.

When you stepped outside, the sunlight was warm on your face and you just drank it in. You hadn’t had the opportunity to stop and smell the roses in a while. The breeze, balmy and relaxing, ruffled your hair as you slowly made your way down the winding path. Trees, greenery, and fresh air surrounded you, and you noticed that you could hear the birds chirping much more clearly here.

It was quiet.

You liked the quiet.

After a good five minutes or so, you reached the lake. The water sparkled a beautiful blue in the sun and upon the little pier was a half-enclosed sitting area. It was on one of the wooden benches there that you spotted Wanda taking selfies. It seemed you weren’t the only one enjoying the nice spring weather.  

“My palette came out today,” she told you as you walked up to her, as if to explain why she was being so vain but the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. On her lids were some lovely warm tones that suited her, reds and purples - perfectly blended, as all things should be.

Right. You’d completely forgotten.

“It looks great on you,” you told her with full honesty, taking a seat next to her on the bench. She was so skilled at applying it, too, which made you feel a little bit envious. She was lovely.

Her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners at your compliment. “I see you’re in better spirits today.” 

You nodded, leaning back against the backrest and pulling your jacket into your lap. “Not being hungover is a good start.”

She laughed and turned back to her phone. It wasn’t rude, the way she did it; it was casual and easy-going, just like your blooming friendship with her. If anything, you’d interrupted her by coming to chat, but she didn’t seem to mind.

As she continued to fiddle with what you assumed was her Insta, you spent some time watching the clouds drift across the sky and shift into different shapes. Sitting out in the sun by the lake was relaxing, unhurried, and you felt like you had all the time in the world. You wanted to soak up as much of this pleasant feeling as you could for the next time you crashed and burned.

The sound of a snapshot caught your attention, and you looked back at Wanda to find her looking pleased with herself.

“Did you just take a picture of me?” you asked her incredulously.

“I might have,” she responded with a casual lilt that made you nervous.

You blinked owlishly at her. “Why?”

“It was a good photo,” she told you, typing something on her phone. “I’ll tag you in it.”

“What? No, wait, don’t upload—” Your phone sounded, then, and you groaned. “At least let me look at it first!”

She gave you an apologetic smile as you pulled your phone from your jacket pocket. Just like you predicted, you’d received a notification that Wanda had tagged you on Instagram.

You weren’t too concerned about your face being out there. You may have had a target on your back, but the Avengers had larger ones on theirs and no one would risk attacking the compound to capture you. There were bigger fish to fry.

Actually, it was kind of nice; for the first time in a long, long time, your only concern was that it might have been a bad photo. You tapped on the notification and, when the picture loaded, you could see exactly why she’d taken it.

It was a little artsy, a little edgy for your taste. The filter she selected was black and white, but it suited the expression on your face: pensive. As you looked out at the water, the sunlight cascaded around you into an almost heavenly glow, and the small smile on your lips along with the floral dress on your body were a striking contrast to the dark bruises marring your arm.

Her description was a simple one:

When you saw the last tag, you snorted. “Fitspo? No way.”

She waggled her brows at you. “Have you seen yourself? I mean, even the  _Captain_ —” 

You _knew_ you hadn’t heard the last of it. Your cheeks flushed immediately at her teasing and you shushed her, “Wanda!”

Her cheshire grin was back almost instantly. She could read you like a book. It may have had something to do with the fact that she could actually read your mind.

You huffed and pulled your jacket back on as an inadvertent barrier to protect yourself from this conversation. “We’re _friends_.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” she said sarcastically, giving you a pointed look. “Did he ever tell you why? Aside from the obvious.”

What was the obvious?

Oh. That he just couldn’t resist your beauty, or something. Yeah, right.

She did have a point, though. You never did get an explanation. Steve had said that he’d tell you whatever it was that Bucky wanted you to know – but after you finished your certification, he never actually told you anything at all. You’d completely forgotten about it until now.

There was a lot of that going around these days.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “He didn’t.”

That seemed to surprise her enough that she fell into silence. It might have been your tone, or maybe she just thought you’d be adults and talk about it. Instead you did burpees. Smart.

Although you had to say, thinking about the first time you met him made you smile. Really, truly smile. It made you blush, too, of course, and it was a stupid mess of a situation - whatever the hell you and Steve had going on - but you were enjoying the ride. Something was there. You knew it, and you knew that he did, too. The very fact that he’d been waiting for you this morning proved that there was chemistry.

Another snapshot pulled you out of your reverie.

“Wanda,” you warned, and at your tone she jumped to her feet. “Damn it, don’t you dare!”

When she broke into a run, you chased her laughter all the way back to the compound.

Even after you got back, she didn’t show you the photo - but she didn’t post it, either. Instead, she sent it to you. That same sunlit backdrop made you glow just like the other snap she’d taken, but not as much as your smile. The text she sent along with it read:

Flustered, you deleted it in a hurry.

What you didn’t know was that you weren’t the only one she sent it to.


End file.
